


A Gift of Roses

by felin78



Category: Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 11:58:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9122569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felin78/pseuds/felin78
Summary: Marcus brings Susan a gift. One-shot.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a contest entry in April 2007 for Jason's Carter's Crew Yahoo group. My first fanfic in the B5 universe. Limited word count, so had to watch length. My muse wondered about the unrequited relationship between Susan and Marcus--a "what-if-things-had-played-out-differently" scenario. I didn't know if it was a tired plot or not, I just followed my muse (he's a silver-tongued devil who carries a whip--who can argue with that?) ;oP

Marcus Cole stared into the mirror. Green eyes stared back at him with reproach.

You're a bloody fool, he chided himself. What makes you think this will change her mind?

But he couldn't help it. A romantic fool he remained, make no mistake.

A love struck fool, on a fool's errand.

He had searched high amongst the manicured shops and well-groomed vendors of the _Zocalo_ , searching with single-minded intent. No dice. Not one thing approached what he was looking for, the one thing he knew would embody the ache he carried inside like a bruise.

So he had searched low, in the underbelly of Babylon 5. Hooded and cloaked, he had blended in with the shady denizens of the Brown Sector, comfortable amongst the homeless and disenfranchised. Looks aside, he fit right in. He was an orphan set adrift, his family slaughtered, his colony destroyed. He had no home.

He didn’t understand it, but the community--such as it was--accepted him as one of their own. That's how he often knew when something was brewing, from the thrum in the carefully tuned network he nurtured. And he returned the favor, protecting the ones who couldn't protect themselves.

No clean shop façades or tidy kiosks existed Down Below. Instead, all manner of odds n' ends and borderline illicit wares were laid out on tattered blankets, ready to be rolled up and spirited away at a moment's notice.

Old Isaiah's eyes had lit up when he heard what Marcus was looking for. Isaiah had come through for him in spades, and Marcus paid dearly for the favor, nearly emptying his account of every chit of currency it contained.

He glanced once more at his reflection, slender and dark against the silvered glass. With all the weapons hidden on his person, he could take down a small army. So why did he quail at the thought of what he meant to do?

He gently rested a gloved hand over his left breast, over the pocket hidden in his mantle, and with a deep breath slipped from his spartan quarters.

The hour was late, the corridors empty. His booted feet made the merest whisper on the floor. Despite his difficulty in the discipline of meditation, Marcus knew how to move quietly when he wanted to. That had surprised his Minbari mentors to no end. They couldn't understand how his inability to sit still could co-exist side by side with his gift of stealth.

He chuckled at the memory, and gave a small nod to the figure he passed.

"Marcus."

With a silent sigh Marcus slowed and turned.

"Lennier." He fixed a look of polite inquiry on his face.

"It is late to be walking the station alone." Pale blue eyes appraised him.

Typical Minbari statement, saying little and implying much. Not voicing the unspoken question--why would a Ranger be walking the station at such a late hour? Was he ferrying a message of importance to the higher ups? Or better yet, bringing in new data gathered from a reconnaissance mission? After all, weren't they in the midst of a war?

"Just restless, Lennier. Needed to stretch my legs. And you?"

"Walking meditation. It's peaceful at this hour."

"Quite." Marcus nodded. "I wish you a peaceful night, then."

"I wish you the same, Ranger," Lennier responded with a small bow.

They both resumed their respective journeys. Marcus wasn't fooled for one moment, and neither, he suspected, was Lennier. He tucked the thought away to contemplate at another time.

He made it to her door just she rounded the corner.

"Marcus." Commander Susan Ivanova halted in front of him. "Is something wrong?" The tired look in her eyes vanished, replaced with adrenaline worry.

"No. Just here to deliver a gift."

"A gift? At four in the morning? From who?" Her gaze slid around him, as if searching for someone else.

Marcus waited.

She looked back at him with curiosity. "Well, come in then. My feet are killing me. I was lucky to get a bathroom break this shift." She keyed in her code and ducked through the open doorway. Lights flickered on, triggered by her movement.

"What's so important it couldn't wait until tomorrow?" She kicked off her boots and sank onto the couch. Yawning, she yanked the tie from the end of her braid, letting her hair flow free.

"This." Marcus came to her side, tugging off his gloves and tucking them into his belt. The door hissed shut behind him. Carefully, he withdrew the bundle from his hidden pocket. Kneeling in front of her, he flipped back the black silk.

Susan's eyes widened. She stared at the two roses nestled in his hand, complete with thorns. An intoxicating scent, like fragrant delirium, filled the air. Every nuance suggested extravagance. Like the love he wanted to give her, if she would only give him a chance.

"For me?"

"Yes, in honor of an old earth custom--Valentine's Day."

"You must be joking. Where did you get them? They must've cost a fortune--"

"What's wrong? Don't you like them?"

"Yes, but," she hesitated, regarding the blooms like they might bite her. "Marcus, I'm married to my work, I don't have time--"

"Susan, it's a gift, not a proposal. No strings attached. Take them--you love roses. Stephen said so."

"Marcus...."

"One sniff, that's all I ask,"he wheedled. "If you hate them I promise to trade them in for a box of chocolates."

She half-smiled and leaned forward, drawing in a deep breath, then another. Slow delight dawned in her blue-grey eyes, and then her head dipped into his hand to nuzzle the petals, soft as velvet, crimson as heart's blood.

Like the blood he was willing to spill for her.

Marcus tensed, staring at her bowed head, at the cascade of hair like a waterfall of molten honey. He would bleed for her, die for her, couldn't she see it? But no, of course not. He kept his real face tucked away behind a mask of cheerful banter. Only Delenn with her piercing gaze could see past the pretense, and he took great care nowadays to avoid her if at all possible. He wasn't ready to let go of the pain he carried close, a faithful companion that reminded him daily why he was alive.

"It's beautiful," she said softly. "Too beautiful for me." Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "Do you know how long it's been since I've seen an earth rose?"

"Not exactly from earth," he said, leaning in close. "Earth stock, slips, carried by the Martian colonists. Got out on the black market. The Centauri bred a modified version--lasts for months. And it will stay as fragrant as the day it was plucked--just like a rose would smell on a spring morning, covered with dew." He wound a loop of her undone hair around his fingers.

"But I don't have anything for you."

"Seeing the look in your eyes is gift enough." He let the silky strands stroke his palm.

"Why, Marcus? You went to a lot of trouble...."

"Do I need to make you another chart? "Knight gives roses to lady. Lady graciously accepts.""

Susan smiled, her lips parted, and she began to laugh.

That was when he kissed her.

One heartbeat. Two.

And then she kissed him back.

xxx

_'Picking up tired feet, Back from a far horizon. Cleaned up and brushed down, Dressed to look the part. Fresh from God's garden, I bring a gift of roses...To stand in sweet spring water and press them to your heart. Like the Kipling cat, I walk alone - Never inviting trouble, never casting the stone. But this badge of honour is of tarnished tin. Light your guiding beacon to bring this fisher in.' A Gift of Roses, Jethro Tull_


End file.
